Alien Tradition

The voices of nothing are talking again,
Echoing down the long detours
They have to take through the years
And the languages to get to your ears,
Not your ears—the parts of your thoughts
That chew on old phrases, tasting
All their twists and turns. They know

They’ve made you sorrowful, or that
They’ve given your sorrow release
Like a latch lifted in mourning
Nothing much but being to mourn.
Open-mouthed over the waves of poems,
Lament until you’re satisfied,
And then we’ll bring you home.